Chapter 12: The Cooking Lesson
The kitchen light was a surgical white, bleaching everything of warmth. Louise stood on the cold tile, the grout lines pressing into her bare feet. The air smelled of lemon disinfectant and, underneath, something older, greyer. Marcus moved around her, a planet in its steady orbit, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator with a comfortable, proprietary air.
“Quiet night in,” he said, his voice cheerful. He set a packet of butter and a thick strip of steak on the counter. The meat was a deep red, marbled with white fat. “Thought I’d treat myself. You can keep me company.”
He didn’t tell her not to move. He didn’t have to. It was in the way he glanced at her, a quick scan of her stillness, before turning to the stove. The burner ignited with a whump, a blue ring of fire. He dropped the butter into a heavy cast-iron pan. It hissed, melted, foamed into gold.
The aroma hit her like a physical blow. Rich, savory, animal fat. Her salivary glands screamed to life, a painful, automatic betrayal. A deep, hollow cramp twisted through her stomach, loud and gurgling in the silent room.
He heard it. He smiled, not turning from the pan. “Hungry?” He tossed the steak into the bubbling butter. The sound was volcanic, a furious, spitting sizzle that sent droplets of hot fat dancing into the air. One landed on her thigh. She flinched but didn’t make a sound. “Good,” he said, satisfied. “That means you’re working. Your body’s looking for fuel it’s not going to get. That’s the discipline.”
He picked up a spatula. “Come here.”
She took two steps forward. The heat from the stove washed over her front.
“Take this.” He pressed the spatula handle into her palm. Her fingers were weak, clumsy. He positioned himself behind her, his body enveloping hers. His arms came around her, his hands closing over hers on the utensil. He was a furnace at her back. She could feel the hard ridge of his belt buckle, the solid wall of his chest.
“This is how we cook together,” he murmured into her ear, his breath moving the fine hairs there. He guided their joined hands, sliding the spatula under the searing steak. The meat resisted, then released with a tear. He flipped it. The underside was a perfect, crusted brown. The smell intensified, becoming almost unbearable. “You, naked and empty. Me, feeding myself while you watch. It’s a partnership, really.”
He kept her there, pressed against him, for the full four minutes a side. She felt every shift of his muscles, every small adjustment of his weight. The heat from the pan reddened her skin. Her arm ached from being held aloft. The hunger pains had coalesced into a single, sharp point of need behind her navel.
When the steak was done, he nudged her aside, plating it. He didn’t let her sit. He pulled a stool to the center of the room and sat, facing her. He cut a piece, speared it, and brought it to his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyes locked on hers. She watched the muscles in his jaw work. She heard the soft, wet sound.
“Tender,” he said, swallowing. “Perfect.” He took another bite. And another. He ate the entire thing with methodical slowness, a performance of consumption. He saved a piece of fat, glistening and soft, for last. He swirled it in the pooled juices on his plate before eating it.
When only the bone and a smear of juice remained, he tore off a piece of the crusty baguette he’d fetched earlier. He dragged it through the grease, soaking it thoroughly. He held it up, examining the dripping morsel.
“You were a very good helper,” he said, his tone light, conversational. “Held the spatula just right. Didn’t complain. Didn’t move.” He extended the bread toward her lips. “One bite. A taste of the reward. For being so good.”
Her entire being focused on that tiny, greasy piece of bread. Her mind was a blank static. She leaned forward, opened her mouth. He placed it on her tongue.
Flavor exploded. Salt, fat, the profound, iron-rich essence of the meat, the yeasty tang of the bread. It was so potent it was almost violent. Her teeth closed. The texture was a miracle: crisp exterior giving way to a soggy, rich center. A moan caught in her throat.
“There,” he whispered, watching her chew with rapt attention. “That’s all you need. The memory of it. The proof of what you can resist.”
The bite was gone in seconds. The ghost of it lingered, a taunt. The emptiness that followed was deeper, more profound, a canyon carved fresh inside her.
He stood, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He walked to her, cupped her face. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones, prominent under her skin. “See? We can share everything. Even this.” He kissed her forehead. “Now, go stand on the scale. Let’s see what all that discipline bought us tonight.”
The scale was in the corner. Its digital face was a flat, black square. She walked to it, the taste of beef fat still a faint, cruel echo in her mouth. She stepped on. The numbers flickered, settled.
He crouched down, peering at the readout. A slow smile spread across his face, broader than the one in the living room. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated conquest.
“Ninety-three point four,” he read aloud, his voice hushed with awe. He looked up at her, his eyes shining. “Louise. You lost a pound and a half just watching me eat dinner.”
He stood and pulled her off the scale, holding her at arm’s length, his gaze devouring her. “You incredible thing. You’re metabolizing the very air.” He pulled her into a tight embrace, laughing softly into her hair. “Ninety is so close I can taste it. And it tastes better than steak.”